


Overflow

by reges_criniti



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Era, Gen, Light Angst, M/M, Missing Scene, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, post-episode, the Great Merlin Re-Watch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 16:15:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5934796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reges_criniti/pseuds/reges_criniti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His heart bleeds as he watches his prince slip beneath the murky surface. It breaks as the ripples bounce and grow from the greedy bubbles that pull at the prince, slip him under the hazy surface.</p><p>This isn't how this is supposed to end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overflow

**Author's Note:**

> Post 1x07- The Gates of Avalon. 
> 
> Because there needed to be a moment or two or five for some feels before Arthur returned to being a dollophead.

 

_Arthur._

His feet fly across the worn footpath, eyes bright and alert for a muddy footprint or trampled branch. For something, _anything_ , that will tell him just where, exactly, they went.

_Arthur, save Arthur._

He fights the flare of panic knotted tight in his chest and focuses instead on the steady rhythm of his boots treading across the forest floor.

_Run, yes, run._

Each ragged breath bringing him closer.

_Faster._

His chest is burning, his lungs tight with either fear, or panic, or because of this brutal pace he's set. Maybe it's all of those things. He doesn't exactly know, doesn't exactly care.

_Run, Merlin._

At this time of year, in this weather all the trees are bare, their branches akimbo and sharp and they reach out and snag him, catching and cutting like a thousand little daggers. But the pain doesn't register; he doesn't feel the beads of blood welling across the backs of his hands, his cheeks, his chest.

_Faster, Merlin._

The light grows dark and hazy, each trunk like an immovable sentry blocking him from his prince. He calls on his magic, on every fibre in his body to keep his feet steady and sure across the uneven forest floor. But his brain stutters, calls up an image of Arthur dead upon the bottom of the lake, bloated and pale, lips blue, and Merlin feels himself falling. His shoulder shouts in agony as he crashes down upon it, rolling and tumbling, rocks digging, thorns and brambles pulling at his flesh.

It's almost easier then, body broken and sprawled across the muddy ground, to convince himself to leave Arthur to whatever foolish death he consigned himself to. To lay here and let events unfold as they may.

But, no.

This isn't how this is supposed to end. 

His heart threatens to burst from his chest with each excruciating thump; he can feel his body rock with each pulse. _Arthur, Arthur, Arthur_ it seems to say, his heartbeat a physical echo of the beat keeping time inside his head. He draws himself up again, finds his footing, and sets off into the woods once more.

_Don't stop. Save Arthur._

He can smell the lake, that familiar blend of silt and mossy rocks, dead fish and bird droppings; can feel the air grow colder and damper, and he knows he must be close then. The wind stirs and changes direction suddenly and Merlin can feel the magic in the air, can feel it hum and crackle as he skids to a halt on the rough-hewn shore.

He sees Arthur first, water up to his hips, standing stoic and stately even in near death, even as his mind is consumed and attacked by dark magic.

His vision bottoms out, tunnels in as Sophia leans towards Arthur, spell on her fiendish lips before she ends it by pressing her lips slowly against Arthur's. Merlin watches it all and that kiss feels like a dagger in his chest, pain blooming and spreading until he's gasping for air.

The splash of Arthur's body as it hits the water, the rising lilt of Aulfric's chant, it all falls on deaf ears as Merlin's heart cries out. It bleeds as he watches his prince slip beneath the murky surface. It breaks as the ripples bounce and grow from the greedy bubbles that pull at the prince, slip him under the hazy surface.

It's then that he snaps, once Arthur is good and gone from sight. He doesn't fight his magic anymore, doesn't try to reign it in. He lets it flow and fill the world, lets it seek and destroy and shake the very ground he stands on. Because Camelot may be attacked, her walls may fall to evil and a dark sorcery, but not this. Not Arthur. Arthur is his. His duty, his destiny. This was too much, had gone too far.

Aulfric's staff is in Merlin's hands and he doesn't hesitate to let the spell spill from his lips. It's never been easier to kill, to destroy. It's almost satisfying to see Aulfric's not-quite human body fall apart to ribbons and dust. Sophia's cry draws his attention and he spins the staff, holds it steady and true, aimed directly for the enchantress's cruel and wicked heart. He doesn't hear her cry die on the wind, doesn't wait to see the nothing that emerges in the place where she had been standing. Instead, he runs for the water, eyes locked on the ripples still radiating ever outward like a watery headstone.

"Arthur!" he shouts, arms windmilling, feet sliding, scrambling for purchase on the mossy bottom of the lake.

"Arthur," he cries again, sputtering for breath, his clothes instantly soggy and laden. 

He slips, falls, hits the water, Arthur's name still on his lips as water clouds his eyes, fills his nose, chokes his throat.

It's not easy to see, even with is head under the water; he can't gauge the depth, the size of the lake from here. All he knows is Arthur must be sinking, slumping slowly downward like a rock because he won't be able to float, not with a full suit of mail and a pauldron and spaulder tied to his body.

Merlin rises, gasping for breath, willing the silt in the water to settle, for the panic rattling around his head to quiet, for his heart to stop pounding. He dives in again and again, legs pushing him farther, deeper, arms straining, each passing second feeling like an eternity as Arthur waits below, hidden in the foggy depths.

At last, _at last_ , Merlin feels his fingers brush across forged metal, makes out wisps of blonde hair that in the sunlight above this watery grave shines like a brilliant halo. He pulls the prince close to his chest, arms locked, fingers white knuckled as his feet kick and push them towards the rippling surface above.

The duo breaks the surface and with it whatever magic holding tight within Arthur also breaks, his breath light and shallow but nevertheless there and once more setting his too-still heart beating. 

With his last ounces of strength, Merlin splashes and trips them up the bank until his feet stumble and knees buckle and they crash down in a tangle of wet clothes and heavy limbs. Merlin's shaking hands fly over Arthur's body, each touch, each look reassuring the young sorcerer that Arthur is safe and whole and _alive._

Exhausted, overcome, tears rolling down his already dripping face, Merlin falls over his prince, fingers scrabbling, clawing, never wanting to let go, all the while vowing to never again allow Arthur to slip out of his grasp.

 


End file.
